To Face the Tide
by okaynextcrisis
Summary: It still strikes him as strange to come home to anything but silence. Set between Blood on the Scales and Someone to Watch Over Me.


_Requested by adama-roslinlove, who wanted a post-mutiny date night fic. It sort of took a weird turn..._

_Title taken from "Swim Until You Can't See Land" by Frightened Rabbit. I don't own that, either._

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**To Face the Tide**

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Lately, Bill always seems to open the hatch to his quarters to the sound of voices.

After so many years—decades, really— of living alone, it still strikes him as strange to come home to anything but silence. For so long, _silence_ was what he craved when he walked through that hatch; a respite from the constant questions, and needs, and squabbles of his crew. These rooms were a place of solitude, of peace.

Now, they are something else.

Since the mutiny, he and Laura have given up any pretense of living apart. Rationally, neither of them sees the point; their relationship is hardly a secret anymore, after all, and with the Quorum dead and Galactica practically under lockdown, that kind of politicking seems a thing of the past.

Less rationally…he's not sure either of them could bear it.

Exactly one reporter has had the temerity to touch on the subject, in a broadcast he and Laura heard over the wireless a few days ago.

He'd never heard Laura use that kind of language before.

Today, the voices he hears are Laura's and Lee's.

He finds them sitting across from each other, the table, stacked high with papers, a barricade between them. Lee has his jacket off and his tie loosened; underneath the table, Bill can see that Laura has kicked off her shoes, one stockinged toe drawing circles in the rug. Their voices aren't raised, not quite, but the frustration is tangible in the room, and from the way that Lee is gesturing with a folder and the lift to Laura's eyebrows, Bill can tell that they've been arguing. It's equally clear, at least to Bill, that while the subject might be important, the argument isn't; Lee and Laura will get up from this table, and this fight, without any damage done on either side.

Bill can't help but be relieved. There's been enough damage done lately.

They look up when he enters, Laura with a bright smile, Lee with a slightly abashed one. Bill wonders just what it is Lee has been saying to Laura, and decides he may be better off not knowing. He and Lee exchange a tired nod of greeting, before they both turn their attention back to Laura.

Since the mutiny, it is no longer possible to see her without also seeing the cancer. She is no longer slender, the way she always was, but _thin_; her frame too slight, too delicate, her professional suits hanging loosely from her body in a way that would have been suggestive, if it weren't sad instead. Her dark wig, so unlike her real hair, contrasts sharply with her skin, her formerly creamy complexion gone to pale, angular planes.

It's stupid, it's a waste of time, but Bill wishes that he'd _looked _at her more, just looked at her, back when her face and her body didn't inspire in him this particular, potent blend of pleasure and pain.

Except there was no such time, Bill reminds himself. There is no tranquil, comforting past to look back on, just a series of storms, weathered together and apart. Laura's presence in his life, as the woman sharing his burdens, and then his quarters, and then finally his rack, cannot be separated from the attacks, from the Cylons, from her cancer. Unless what he's really wishing for is to go back, do it all again, be a little braver…and that is not a regret he's willing to face; not tonight, and not without a drink in his hand.

Lee's eyes are on Laura as well, though for different reasons, Bill imagines. He and Lee do not speak of Laura, at least not of who she is to them personally. They speak of the President, of _Roslin_, not Laura who's sharing Bill's quarters, or Laura will soon be passing on her responsibilities to Lee.

Neither of them would know what to say.

Laura clears her throat. "I think we're done for the night," she says to Lee.

Sometimes, after these late meetings, Laura invites Lee to join them for dinner. Bill knows that she does it for his sake; that she knows what having his family around him, at least what's left of it, means to him.

Tonight, though, he can't help but hope that Lee has other plans.

He wants Laura all to himself.

This morning, there'd been no time for anything but a quick kiss between them before Laura rushed off to a meeting with Lee and he went on to CIC. These days, what they have—waking up together, stealing moments throughout the day, crawling into bed together at night—it's so much more than he deserves, and it still leaves him aching for more.

These days, there is never enough time.

"I should get going," Lee says into what has become a slightly awkward silence. "I'll see you tomorrow, Madame President?"

"You will," Laura promises. Lee's words hang in the air, and Laura's appearance—the trembling in her hands, the new huskiness of her voice—makes them chilly.

They all pretend they don't notice it.

With a last smile for Laura, and a nod for his father, Lee gathers his things and departs, the hatch clanking shut behind him.

Laura turns to Bill and stretches out her hand for him, a mischievous smile on her face. "I thought he'd never leave."

Bill brings her hand to his lips. "He's obviously trying to get in the way of his father's hot date."

Laura laughs. "_Very_ hot," she teases. "All the boys are so jealous."

"They are," Bill says sincerely.

They're interrupted by a knock on the door; it's a private—not Jaffee, not anymore—with a tray for their dinner. Bill thanks her, and carries the tray back with him, setting it down on the table in front of Laura.

"What is it tonight?" Laura asks lightly. "Algae…or algae?"

Bill's lips quirk. He knows it's the cancer, and not the cuisine, that keeps her from eating …still, he can't help wishing he had something more appetizing to offer her.

He can't help wishing he had anything more to offer her.

He serves up two portions of algae, shaped into meatloaf, but still, essentially, a gelatinous blob. He watches Laura take a few bites—to humor him, he thinks—and then push the rest around her plate.

"I think they're learning to season this a little better," he remarks, digging into his own plate with unnecessary zeal. It's not true, but if he can get her to take one more bite, then another…

Rationally, he knows that food—even good food, and definitely not this tasteless slop—won't fix Laura.

Rationally, he knows that nothing will fix Laura.

He gets up to pour himself a drink. "Can I get you one?" he offers. She won't want it; she hardly ever drank before her cancer's recurrence, and only once, memorably, since…but he still asks, every time.

She isn't listening.

He turns to find her holding a framed picture in her hands, one that has sat on the shelf behind the small table for so long, he doesn't even see it anymore.

"Laura?" he prompts. Even now, as close as they are, he sometimes finds her hard to read.

"I can't tell which one is Lee," she says.

Bill comes closer, peering over her shoulder. It's a picture of Zak, Lee, and Carolanne, taken back when the boys were small. It's a close-up shot, all faces: Zak's smile, wide and infectious; Lee's, happy and relaxed; Carolanne's, tolerant but good-natured. He and Carolanne had taken the kids to the beach that day, the first time for both Zak and Lee.

He'd taken so many pictures that day, just to get this one.

"The one on the left," he answers, pointing to the little boy with the wind-tousled blonde hair and the bright blue eyes, ignoring the odd pang of disquiet he feels at the sight of Laura holding this picture.

He doesn't think of these quarters as purely _his_ anymore; they haven't been for some time. These rooms, and everything they contain, are _theirs_: the couch where they sip coffee in the morning, the table where they share dinner, the rack where they collapse together at night. His closet holds Laura's suits, as well as his uniforms; her makeup shares counter space with his razor blades; at the end of the day, her glasses rest beside his. It comes as a surprise, always, when he is reminded of how recently this came to be, of how very new, in some ways, they are to one another. To him, this photograph is a relic, but to Laura, it is brand new. To him, this is a picture of his sons; to Laura, he imagines, it is a childhood photo of someone she knows only as an adult, and someone she will never know at all.

It sneaks up on him, this knowledge, as each unpleasant reminder does, intruding upon what has, these days, become his private fantasy, cocooning him from the painful, relentless reality. Inside these rooms, he can pretend, just for a little while…

But he and Laura have not always shared a home, much less a life. These rooms, now full of Laura's presence, once held a singular, solitary life.

Soon enough, now, they will again.

Bill drains his glass, and resolutely pours another.

_Not tonight_, he tells himself.

He will not mourn Laura while she's still in the room.

He returns to Laura to find her still holding the picture.

"Tell me about that day," she says.

He wonders if she feels it, too, if that's why she asks, or if the light shining in her eyes now is merely curiosity.

He takes a slow sip, letting the smooth liquid burn its way down his throat.

What is there to say, what would hurt her the least? There is another woman in that picture, a woman he married, made two beautiful children with. That day, he remembers, Carolanne wore a blue bikini, the sunlight caressing her light blonde hair. She'd frolicked in the shallows with the boys, while he'd walked the shore, digging his toes into the sand. He and the boys had built a sand castle. Later, the four of them had hunted for shells together, carefully wrapping them up in picnic napkins to take them home.

He and Carolanne had a lot of bad days.

That day at the beach wasn't one of them.

It occurs to him, belatedly, how many of these pictures he has here, scattered among bookcases, nestled into crannies. Maybe he doesn't see them anymore…but Laura clearly does. He wonders how many times she has glanced at these family pictures from a family that isn't her family…wonders how he would feel if he were living among mementos of her marriage, her children.

Maybe he hasn't made this place a home for her after all.

"It's like another life, now," he says at last.

Something flickers in her sea-green eyes, and then, just as swiftly, it is gone. Carefully, she puts the picture back in its place. Her face is turned away from him. "I'm sorry," she says. "I shouldn't have asked."

He wanted to spare her pain, and he's hurt her instead.

"Laura…" he begins.

She comes closer, her hands reaching up to cup his face. "It's all right," she says softly. "I understand."

But she doesn't, not really. She thinks he doesn't want to share this part of his life with her, when really, he doesn't want to remember that there is any part of his life that they _haven't_ shared. She wants to talk about his past; he wants to bury himself in their present.

Because the only beach that he and Laura will ever see together was a wasteland.

Her fingers play with his hair, and he closes his eyes. If he could just stay here, in this moment, with her…

But Lee is gone, and Kara may be lost, and his ship is falling to pieces, and Laura is dying, and soon, he will be all alone.

Laura pulls his head down, gently, to drop a kiss to his forehead. "Was it a good day?" she asks.

He pulls her closer, his hands holding her back, her face burying itself in his chest.

"It was a good day," he whispers. "I wish you'd been there."

Laura hums against his chest. "I'm glad you were happy," she murmurs.

"I have never been happier than I am right now," he whispers fiercely, his face pressed against the top of her head.

It is, unquestionably, the truth.

That's what makes it hurt so much.

He pulls them both backward, deeper into their quarters. "Come on," he whispers. "I want to tell you everything."


End file.
